A Dream Is A Wish
by Tirnel
Summary: A Grelliam version of Cinderella.


An orphan boy dropped off on his Aunt's doorstep. She towered above him, peering down her nose at him as if he were some disgusting, unwanted thing. "But then, who ever wants a useless orphan?" she often said to him. She ever smelled of barley water. "But for your father, you'd be lying in the gutter or in some workhouse, which I still have half a mind to send you to. There'll be no mooching out of my pocket from you. You're going to earn your keep here. Idleness is the devil's playground. Now stop dawdling on the doorstep and come inside." She moved aside and let her nephew into the cramped front hall.

"You will change into something more suitable at once," she said, ripping the case of what few belongings he had from his hand. "Cyril has been kind enough to give you use of a few things that doesn't fit him anymore. Be sure to thank him when you see him," she continued, leading him up the staircase to the first floor. A foot shot out and tripped him as soon as he reached the top, sending him to land hard on the wood floor below. A most annoying laugh filled his ears and he nearly cried from the pain and humiliation of it all, but his aunt was fussing at him to get up. "Cyril!" she said sharply. The laughter stopped as Grell picked himself off the floor. "Show your cousin to his room."

A pudgy, pig of a boy came and grabbed him roughly. "Come on!" he ordered, sounding annoyed at the idea. Cyril led Grell to another staircase. Up and up they went, the last flight of stairs being the narrowest and the steepest. Its steps were uneven and Grell almost tripped more than once on them. At the top was a small attic room. Dust covered bric a brac crowded the tiny, stuffy space. Light poured in from a small window on the slanted ceiling. The window didn't look as if it could be opened either to let in some fresh air. A thin, uncomfortable looking mattress had been crammed amongst the things on the floor along with an even thinner blanket. No pillow. The few articles of clothing Aunt Margaret had given him had been laid on the bed.

"Lovely, ain't it?" mocked Cyril.

"This is an attic," said Grell in a ,small voice.

"It's a room, isn't it?" asked Cyril in a snide tone. "Your room, so mother says, so you better not be complaining, you cadger, or she'll give you what for. That's what mother says you are, a cadger and a bastard."

Grell's face grew red with anger. "I am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!" Cyril argued once more, this time bringing his fist down onto Grell's skull. "You are too and that's enough cheek out of you! I'm telling mother," said Cyril, taking off downstairs.

Grell glared down after him. He wanted to go home. Home to his mother. He hadn't really known his father, having only met him a few times after being born, but he sent money every now and then. Until, one day, the money stopped and mother grew ill. She sent several letters inquiring after his father, but got no reply. Not until recently.

The grief on her face when she read that final letter haunted him. Then she died too, a few weeks later and Grell was shipped off to live with an aunt he'd never seen or heard of before then. If first impressions were everything, he'd almost sooner the workhouse she threatened him with.

He undressed and put on Cyril's old hand-me-downs, well worn and ill-fitting, too wide and too short for his tall, gangly frame. He wore his bracers from his old clothes to hold the pants up. Surely his aunt wouldn't object to making sure his trousers didn't fall off and expose himself. Maybe he should and then she'd allow him proper clothes to wear. Grell decided against it and kept the bracers on.

"What is taking so long, nephew?" His aunt's raised voice carried up the stairs. He hurried down, meeting her at the bottom, holding a cane. "Now," she spoke sternly, "Your name. What was it again?"

"Grell."

"Ma'am," she said sharply. "Yes, ma'am. No ma'am. I don't know why I expected your trollop of a mother to teach you manners. Stand up straight!" Grell stood as straight as he could. "You will answer me with a 'yes, ma'am' or 'no, ma'am' and you will address me as Aunt Margaret, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Grell," she sneered. "What sort of name is that? Your mother named you, didn't she. It just won't do. We must find a more suitable name for you...Jack," she said after a moment of thought. "There. That's more fitting. Simple and unassuming for one of your standing. Not so ostentatious as Grell. I don't suppose you've had any schooling."

"I know my letters. I was learning arithmetic, German and French before…"

"And learning it all wrong, I'll wager," she cut in. Grell bubbled with rage at the insult to his mother who had been his teacher. "You may attend Cyril's studies from time to time, provided you do your chores and are well behaved. That way you don't become totally incompetent. I'd rather not have an ignorant waif under my roof. With any luck, I may be able to set you up in an apprenticeship somewhere, provided you are well behaved and don't give me any trouble," she reiterated, "Am I clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You will have your meals in the kitchen when they're earned. You will bring Cyril his breakfast every morning promptly at half past seven. There will be no supper for you tonight, however, or any other night you see fit to talk back to your betters. Now, face the wall." Grell did as instructed. He cried out in pain as the cane came in contact with his backside followed by two more good whacks. "For good measure," she said. "Now go down and help the cook."

Grell looked up at her, rubbing his sore bottom. Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn't cry as she moved aside and firmly pointed in the direction of the kitchen, looking down on Grell with an expression as if she'd just eaten a lemon.

Grell waited until he was alone in the attic, fingers raw from scrubbing floors, to allow himself to cry. Cook had not been a kind woman and had worked him hard until it was very late. His stomach growled in hunger. He clutched at his stomach, wondering if there was a way he could slip down to the kitchen and pilfer something, but in the end, he figured he would be caught. Despite his aching belly, he didn't have much of an appetite anyway. He curled up on the uncomfortable mattress and tried to sleep.

He woke to a crushing weight on his chest. "Wake up, you pinker!" Cyril shouted down at him. "Where's my breakfast?!" The fat boy asked as he shook Grell as he sat on him. Grell was speechless at the rude awakening and didn't quite know how to respond.

"I-I'm sorry," he stumbled.

"You'll be sorry when mother gets a hold of you and she'll give you what for!" Cyril got off him, dragging Grell up and out the door with him. Grell stumbled on the stairs, causing both of them to nearly fall. "Careful bastard!" shouted Cyril as he caught himself on the wall of the stairwell.

"It seems you don't want breakfast either," Aunt Margaret said when Cyril had dragged him to the first floor. "It's almost eight o'clock and my Cyril hasn't had his. It's undoubtedly stone cold by now. Fetch it at once and bring it to the solar. You will go without." She gave Grell a shove toward the kitchen. "Dawdle, and it's the cane again, Jack," she added with promise.

Grell stumbled to the kitchen and took the tray from cook. "About time too," she groused. "The morning's half over already! Get on with you!"

Aunt Margaret announced their plans for the day as Grell served Cyril is breakfast. She planned to be out all morning and possibly all day. Cyril was in need of some new waistcoats as he was outgrowing his. 'Which direction?' Grell thought, hungrily eyeing the blood sausages Cyril shoved down his gullet. "I want this house spotless by this evening. I expect company tomorrow and I don't want to host them in a dirty house."

"Yes, ma'am," answered a disheartened Grell. Aunt Margaret and Cyril were terrible people. Her friends were surely terrifying as well. How was one young inexperienced boy supposed to clean this entire house by himself? While nowhere near the size of a mansion, it was still too much for one of his age and stature. For fear of his aunt's wrath, he would try. His hind end ached at the memory of his recent caning and did not wish so soon a repeat of it.

Dismissed by his aunt, Grell hurried to the kitchen to see what needed doing. She set him about polishing the bannisters and the furniture. She helped him fetch the supplies and was showing him how to do it when his stomach rumbled loudly. Grell looked down, shamefaced. "You," Cook's voice quipped, "when was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday afternoon, on my way over," answered Grell in a small voice. "A bit of bread and cheese one of the men gave me." He glanced up at the portly woman who looked down on him, her hands on her hips.

"You're no use half starved," she said. "Come on with you." She herded him back to the kitchen, made him take a seat on a stool and shoved a hand pie into his hands. "Here. Keep 'em on hand for the young master. Eats too much as it is, if you ask me, but it ain't my place. No good comes of spoiling children too much, mark my words. I don't think he'll miss one measly pie."

Grell greedily tucked into the pie and it was the most delicious hand pie he ever recalled tasting. "What's your name, so I don't have to keep calling you 'boy'?" asked Cook.

Grell chewed and swallowed the food in his mouth before answering. "Grell, ma'am, but Aunt Margaret says that's too osten-, osta-something for me and changed it to Jack."

"You can call me Ms. Gooch," replied the cook, busying herself about the kitchen. "Hurry up with that and get to work," she said harshly. "And keep that pie between you and me. I ain't getting sacked on your account." Grell nodded and downed the rest of the pie before hopping off the stool.

"Thank you, Ms. Gooch," Grell said in appreciation, getting a grunt in return as he returned to his polishing. Maybe Ms. Gooch wasn't so bad after all.

Grell had done the best he could, but he was certain it was nowhere near the quality Aunt Margaret expected. Fortunately for him, she paid him and his work no mind when she finally returned home, retiring to her room while Cyril played with his tin soldiers in the solar for a time. Grell stayed out of his sight, finding small tasks to do in the kitchen with Ms. Gooch and later eating his dinner quietly with her, followed by the cleaning up.

"Thank you, Grell," she said as they dried and put away the last dish. "You should be getting to bed. We have a busy day tomorrow."

"Would it be alright if I slept here?" he asked, not wanting to leave the sanctity of the kitchen and, risk being seen by Cyril or his aunt.

"Here? In the kitchen?" gawked Ms. Gooch. "On the floor?"

Grell nodded. The hard floor couldn't be much worse than that old mattress. In fact, it might be an improvement. "That way it'll be easier to wake me if I oversleep. I wouldn't want to be late with Cyril's breakfast again."

"If you insist, be my guest," answered Ms. Gooch, wiping her hands on a rag before disappearing into a room adjacent the kitchen.

Grell found a spot on the floor near the stove. It wasn't a cold night, but the warmth from it was comforting. It reminded him of sitting beside the fire with his mother's arms wrapped around him asa she told him stories of high romance and forbidden loves. He missed her terribly and wondered why she had to die, If anyone were to die, it should have been Aunt Margaret and her demon spawn, Cyril. Grell cried himself asleep again, mourning his mother and trying to remember all of the tales she told him, Perhaps someone would come rescue from this horrible family and take him far far away.

That night, he dreamed he was a princess locked in a tower, with long, beautiful red hair as he slaved away for his evil stepmother while awaiting his prince. Said prince arrived on a great white steed and an army of pigeons behind him. Pigeons?

The pigeons swooped down and pecked out the eyes of his aunt and cousin. One of them even shat on Cyril's head, causing Grell to smile in his sleep as he smiled down on his savior from the tower window. Grell tossed his long red hair out the window for his prince to climb. His dream ended before he could see the prince's face clearly, but Grell knew he was the most handsomest man.

From this day, Grell took to sleeping in the kitchen often, usually resulting him waking up somewhat dirty. He'd clean himself when possible, but his aunt was cruel, chastising him for his uncleanliness then not allowing him to wash properly except once or twice a week, This gave her the excuse to keep him out of sight as he was 'too dirty to wait on her important guests'. Who wants to see an unwashed orphan during tea time? Does he want to ruin their appetite?

While Cyril grew wider, Grell grew taller. 'More of a wisp than a young man', Ms. Gooch would say. Aunt Margaret either couldn't find an apprenticeship for him or had changed her mind on the matter, being content to have an extra servant around the house that she didn't have to pay. Grell never found out either way. He had long forgotten about it by this time anyway.

Grell woke to Ms. Gooch coming into the kitchen. "Up and at 'em, lazy boy," she said, putting on her apron and setting about breakfast. After a quick one of his own, consisting of a thin porridge and a few raisins slipped in by Ms. Gooch, Grell was loaded with a heavy tray subsisting of more food than required for one person taking their morning meal and set off for Cyril's room. It all smelled delicious and Grell couldn't resist dipping his little finger into one of the fruit tarts and licked the sweet gooey goodness from it before knocking on the door. Cyril was just climbing out of his soft feather bed as Grell entered and placed the tray on a table.

"About bloody time. I'm famished!" exclaimed Cyril, going to the table and stuffing his fat face.

"But I'm early," Grell wanted to say, but he was too disgusted by the other's lack of manners.

"What you gawking at?" Crumbs flew from Cyril's mouth as he spoke and licked his fingers. "Go get my clothes!" he ordered and pointed to the wardrobe. "And open a window. What's you do last night? Sleep in the rubbish bin?" Grell went to the window first, opening it. He spotted his image in a nearby mirror and saw the dirt on his face. He wiped at it with his hand. It didn't do much good as his hand was just as dirty. "It's where you belong though, innit?" Cyril laughed. Grell tried to ignore the jabs. Looking out the window, he saw a carriage pull up.

"Someone is here," he announced.

Cyril came to the window, his cheeks like a chipmunk's. "It's the Barnaby's. My clothes, garbage boy!" Cyril shouted. Grell ran and pulled clothes out of the wardrobe then started about his daily chores, passing Aunt Margaret in the hall as Mr. Barnaby, presumably, knocked on the door.

"For heaven's sake, wash your face and answer the door. Quick now."

Grell hurried, washing his face and hands, and hurrying to the door. "Oh," Mrs. Barnaby sneered down her nose at Grell. "I'll show myself in, thank you." She marched past quickly, knowing her way about. Mr. Barnaby followed at a slower pace. He had a kind face, Grell thought as Mr. Barnaby handed Grell his hat.

"You must be the orphan boy," he said in a pleasant manner. "You must excuse my wife. Hysteria, possibly, but now, let me look at you. Heaven's! I've never seen hair so red before and are those Cyril's old clothes you are wearing?" He tsked and shook his head. "But may I dare say, you don't look a thing like your father."

"You knew my father?" Grell asked and Mr. Barnaby nodded,

"Your mother was quite beautiful, as I recall, but it's been many years. You must take after her."

"I always thought she was pretty," said Grell, though now he could scarcely recall the details of her face.

"Quite. Now what was your name again?"

"Jack," Grell answered, "my aunt calls me 'Jack'."

Mr. Barnaby gave him a look and then asked, "What did your mother call you?"

"Grell," said Grell, hesitantly,

"Grell...such a queer name, Unique. I like uniqueness. Too many Tom, Dick, and Harry's, if you ask me. Grell. It's finally nice to meet you."

"Likewise, sir," responded Grell.

Grell opened the door to the solar for him. "Thank you, young man," said Mr. Barnaby. Mrs. Barnaby and Aunt Margaret were already in the room, waiting for him.

"Go and fetch us some tea, Jack," Ordered Aunt Mragaret. "And be quick about it."

"Yes, ma'am." Grell hurried to the kitchen. Still not having the skill to make a proper cup of tea, Ms. Gooch helped. "Aunt Margaret wants me to wait on her guests today," he told her.

"Probably figured you were too big to hide anymore," she sniggered at her own joke. Grell didn't find it very funny and carried the tea things up to guests and family without another word.

"A party you say?" he heard Aunt Margaret ask intriguingly.

"Not just any party, the party of the year," trilled Mrs. Barnaby. Grell moved about the room, serving the tea as invisible as possible. Only Mr. Barnaby offered a polite 'thank you' in return for his service.

"Yes, Lloyd Hornby is providing the music and we've invited Lord and Lady Spears," input Mr. Barnaby. Aunt Margaret gave a look of surprise and delight.

"And we'd be delighted if you and your family would come as well," continued Mrs. Barnaby.

"Well, of course! We would be delighted to come. I am honored that-"

"All of you," Mr. Barnaby interrupted Aunt Margaret. The occupants of the room looked astonished, including Grell.

"But-" began Aunt Margaret. "You can't be serious, Thaddeus."

"And why not? He's one of the family, isn't he?" Margaret's lips formed a thin line of displeasure, but said nothing. "It would please me to have Byron's heir attend my party. It's been a pity he's been too ill for us to get to know him sooner. His father was a good friend of mine. So much potential," he sighed. "It was a shame he had an early death with such a bright future ahead of him."

"Pity," said Aunt Margaret sourly. "But very well… Provided he is feeling well enough on that night."

"Of course," replied Barnaby, nodding his head. "However, certainly if he is well enough to wait on us and ever so kindly serve us our tea, he has quite recovered from his illnesses and for heaven's sake, get the poor boy his own set of clothes. He can afford it."

Grell saw his aunt's lips grow tighter. She looked at him and said in as pleasant a tone as she could muster for him to retire to his room. Grell left the room as told before Barnaby could object, afraid any more discussions about him would anger her further. He bent his ear to the keyhole to listen from the other side. What did Barnaby mean he could afford it? Grell didn't have two Bob to rub together.

"He's been too ill to take him to the tailor," he heard his aunt say.

"Balderdash. A tailor could be brought to him. Or his measurements taken at least and taken to a tailor. I know a really good children's tailor, Ms. Hopkins, who would have been delighted to help. But now the boy is nearly full grown…"

"I didn't want to risk it," Aunt Margaret replied firmly.

Grell pulled away from the door, hearing footsteps in the hall. Cyril. He fled the other way and ducked out of sight until he was gone. Then he fled upstairs to his room, grinning happily.

A party! A real party! He'd actually been invited to a party! Though he couldn't imagine his aunt actually letting him go, he allowed himself to dream.

A squeak came from a trap in the small attic. Grell went to it and lifted it up, smiling at the rodent inside. "Isn't it wonderful?" he laughed and set the trap down on the mattress. He reached under the mattress and pulled out a dress he had sewn together out of outgrown and worn out clothing. It was absolutely hideous, but Grell was proud of his creation. "What do you think?" he asked the mouse, holding it to his body and twirling. "Will it do? I've never been to a party before."

The mouse made another feeble attempt at escaping the cage, drawing the attention of the redhead. "Aw, you poor thing. Trapped in that awful cage, alone and unloved." Grell carefully opened the trap, reached in and snatched up the mouse. "Trapped in an unforgiving world because they see you as vermin." He held the mouse close and spoke to it in a soothing manner.

CRACK

The mouse stilled in his hands. "There. You're free now. Now more cages for you," Grell said, discarding the lifeless body.

Afterwards, Grell worked doubly hard, trying to please his aunt so that he wouldn't be 'too sick' to attend. It was difficult. Aunt piled on more and often pointless chores for him to do. Then there was Cyril, purposefully coming behind him and undoing his work. He favored muddy shoes on the freshly cleaned floors the most. Aunt Margaret never got him new clothes. Though the thought of a new dress to wear to the party was sweet, he was excited to unveil his own creation.

So when the day of the party arrived and Aunt Margaret was instructing Cyril to begin getting ready, Grell spoke up. "And me, Aunt Margaret? I've done all you've asked and been on my best behavior."

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied in a disgusted tone. "Even if I said 'yes', you cannot attend in those clothes."

"Oh, no, Aunt Margaret! I have something much better. I'll go and change right away!" Grell exclaimed excitedly before pelting upstairs and donning the poorly hand sewn dress. He snatched his purloined comb from its hiding place and ran it through the mess of red upon his head. Aunt Margaret never took him to a barber, instead instructing Ms. Gooch to hack it off whenever it got too long and a barber Ms. Gooch was not.

Smiling, Grell went back downstairs where Aunt Margaret waited with a dumbstruck expression. "Isn't it lovely? Do you like it? Do you think it will do?" Grell asked in rapid succession, giving a twirl. Cyril rejoined them in the hall and gave a disgusted look.

"Jack! Mother!" he protested and whined indignantly. "He can't! Oh no, he can't!" he tugged on his mother's dress, horrified.

"Cyril, please," said Aunt Margaret in a sickeningly sweet tone, having regained her composure. "After all, I did say he could go, didn't I, Jack?" Grell grinned ecstatically. "And I always keep my word."

Aunt Margaret approached Grell, eyeing him. "How very clever. Some of the colors even match your eyes. Don't you agree, Cyril?"

"No, I don't!" replied Cyril, hatefully. "I think it's atrocious! What is that even supposed to be, a dress?" Cyril scowled at his cousin scornfully before reaching over and yanking hard enough on the garment for it to tear. Then, he went savage on him, ripping and tearing at it.

"Oh, please, no!" cried Grell.

"Perverted freak!" answered Cyril.

"Boys, boys," Aunt Margaret called in mock soothing manner when she was satisfied with the destruction. "That's quite enough. Hurry along now, Cyril. You mustn't upset yourself." Margaret ushered Cyril and his upturned nose towards the door and their awaiting cab. Aunt Margaret turned back at the door as she shut it. "Good night," she smiled at Grell, leaving him to examine the remains of the tattered frock in despair.

Sobbing, he ran upstairs, stumbling more than once on the uneven staircase to his attic room, before collapsing onto his pitiful example of a bed. "It's not fair!" he cried, beating his fist on the mattress.

"Gehehehehe~..." A faint laugh echoed about the room. "Gehehehe~" Many twinkling lights appeared, converging into one, resulting in a bright flash. From the flash appeared a small fairy man with long silver hair and bangs that hung down over his eyes. He wore a pink leotard with a matching tutu and carried a scythe with a skeleton on the staff.

Grell was speechless. "Hello, Grell, dear," creaked the fairy's voice while wearing a wide grin. "I'm your fairy hogfather!" he said cheerily then his grin turned to a frown and he tapped his lips with long black nails. "No… That's not quite right."

"F-fairy godmother?" Grell ventured, still in shock.

"Something like that," replied the tiny fairy man, fluttering his translucent pink wings and flying closer to Grell. "But the bigger question is: why aren't you at the party? It's the party of the year!"

"Just look at the state of my dress!" shouted Grell angrily, tugging on the tattered garment. "I should kill Cyril for what he did to my dress! Now I can't go to the only party I've ever been invited to!"

"Good gracious me," tsked the fairy, looking him up and down. "What a fashion disaster. Are you certain this Cyril didn't improve it?"

"What?!" Grell shrieked and grabbed the fairy, squeezing his tiny body. The fairy poofed into nothing with a pink cloud and reappeared out of reach of the redhead.

"Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was going to fix your problem."

"Well get on with it then!" Grell growled at him. "The party will be over by the time you stop flapping your lips and help me get there."

"Now let's see… What were the magic words?" the fairy man pondered aloud. "Hippity… Hoppity? No, that's not right. The complete flame in our chests…? No. That's something else entirely… Aha!" he exclaimed and began twirling his scythe about. "Now give me prime laughter!" he cried with jubilation, followed by a laugh. "I shall turn you into a radiant Phoenix, my darling rose!"

Next Grell knew, he was wearing the most beautiful, and sexy, red gown he had ever seen. His choppy red hair had turned into a cascade of long red locks, giving him a more womanly appearance. And on his feet were a pair of ruby colored glass heels. Grell squealed in delight.

"I look deadly beautiful! Downright gorgeous!"

"Some of my best work," stated the fairy. "And now for the carriage."

"Carriage?"

"Would you prefer to walk?" the fairy asked. Grell answered with an angry look, his toes already hurting from the high heels. "I thought not, hehe~. Do you happen to have a mouse or a rat about you?"

"A mouse?" questioned Grell, remembering the mouse he'd killed recently. He went to the trap, but it was empty.

"Pity," tsked the fairy.

Grell went downstairs and out the front door, the fairy following as he searched for something the fairy could use in place of a mouse. A young chap, smartly dressed, was strutting down the lane, whistling a merry tune whilst wearing a white fedora over his light ginger hair. "What about him?" Grell pointed. The fairy waived his scythe and the young man transformed into a horse, the fedora still stop his head. He whinnied in confusion.

"Now for the carriage itself," the fairy said. "Preferably something with a roundish shape to it."

"But Cyril is already at the party!" Grell whined. He looked around some more and spotted a curry bun vendor, Grell ran over and snatched one, leaving the two men to look after him in astonishment.

"How do you like that?" asked the younger of the two in a thick accent. "The least he could have said was 'thank you'."

"Jo ajna," said the other.

"Will this do?" Grell asked, holding out the curry bun to the fairy. "It's sort of round."

"Hmm…well, I've never tried it with anything savory, but I'll give it a go." Once again the fairy waved his scythe about. Grell watched in astonishment as the bun became a chaise which the fairy hitched the ginger pony to. "My lady," the fairy bowed, ushering Grell into the chaise. "Now have fun, my dear and remember, you must return midnight or the spell will be broken."

"Why midnight?" Grell asked.

The fairy shrugged and waved his scythe again, transforming himself. The pink leotard was replaced by black mortician's garb. "Oh my, that's not right."

"It'll do!" shouted Grell impatiently. "Let's not waste another second!" The fairy joined him in the carriage, taking up the reigns and giving them a snap, they were off.

The eldest son of Lord and Lady Spears, William, stifled yet another yawn as another group of guests at Mr. Barnaby's party introduced themselves and attempt to endear themselves unto him through good manners and regaling him with uninteresting information regarding their family and important people they claim to know and be related to. Honestly, he'd rather be at home in his aviary attending his birds, but his father had insisted he attend. "Making connections" and "finding a bride" were key points in his speech. The obedient son William was, accepted the invitation to the party.

"Good evening, Sir William," a sour faced woman coursteyed, bowing her head low as if he were royalty. "It is an honor and a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Good evening," he replied with as much warmth as he could muster.

"I'm Margaret Chilson. Theodora Barnaby is a close friend of mine. This," she gestured to the young man beside her, "Is my son, Cyril. His father, my husband, regretfully passed away a few years ago. He was in the-"

What little attention William was giving the woman vanished as he spotted a spectacular creature enter the room, commanding the attention of more than just William. This included the woman who had been talking to William, as she turned to see what had diverted his attention and exclaimed in a low, indignant voice, "Well, I never! To wear such a dress out in public. That hair can't be natural. Who on earth invited such a creature?"

Who indeed? William wondered as everyone returned to their conversations or switched to gossiping about the latecomer. Weary of introductions, William retired to a corner of the room where he wasn't likely to be bothered. His brown eyes often drifted to the latecomer in her(?) audacious red ball gown and watched them flaunt about the room like a peacock, shamelessly flirting with some of the men and getting seemingly turned away.

Grell's heart beat wildly. Pulsing. Pulsing, So many gorgeous men nearby! And under no obligation to play the obedient subservient act for his aunt. He could finally act every bit the queen he believed himself to be. Too bad he seemed to be frightening to most of the men he approached.

He brushed off his most recent rejection and spotted another gorgeous hunk. Putting a huge grin on his face, Grell approached him to see if he'd be interested in a dance only for some bimbo to stand territorially close to him and giving Grell a sneer. He sighed frustratedly. A sniffle came from a nearby group of women, attracting the redhead's attention."There, there," one of the women tried to console a crying girl, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "Sir William rejects everyone for a dance."

"You mustn't take it personally."

"I wore his favorite color and everything!" wailed the crying girl. Grell glanced at the conservative dress she wore and thought it no wonder. You can't catch a man dressed like that. Now, to seek out this 'Sir William'. Grell was up for a good chase. A man who denied every woman in the room must be an interesting sort. However, after scanning the room a dozen or so times, he didn't see anyone that looked interesting enough to be this mysterious William. Grell grabbed a cup of punch and went to a corner of the room. He sat down on a padded chair and people watched, hoping he'd get at least one dance before the spell was over.

"Were none of the men interested in dancing with another man?" An unexpected voice beside him asked.

Grell jumped, nearly upsetting his punch. "What? I am a woman, you cad!" She addressed the man.

"So you say."

Grell stopped watching the guests to study him. What a bore! Boring face, boring hair, and boring eyes. His whole manner exuded boring. Completely uninteresting. "And who are you to speak to me so?" he asked haughtily.

"Sit William T. Spears," William answered. He reached in his pocket and handed the redhead his card.

"You?! You're him?!" squeaked Grell in disbelief. "You can't be. You look so, so...so average."

"Honestly," William sighed in such a cool manner, it sent shivers down Grell's spine. "And who are you? Some actor accidentally invited? Someone's consort? Or simply some party crasher?"

"Actress!" Grell said hotly. "And I was personally invited by our host."

"If you say so," said William.

"I do say so," said Grell in turn.

William noticed the sour faced woman having spotted him and was meandering her way towards him. Not wanting to listen to her droll on again, he took Grell's hand and pulled him to his feet, barely giving the surprised redhead time to set down his cup before he dragged him to the dance floor. Grell tried to follow him and not stumble over his feet. "You didn't ask if I wanted to dance with you," said Grell, trying not to appear awed by the strength of the brunet's muscles he felt beneath his hand.

"Considering I am the first to trouble with you tonight, I would think you wouldn't complain."

"Who's complaining? A little courtesy is all I ask. To be treated like a lady."

"I do not stand on ceremony for useless flattery. I am an honest man."

"How boring," answered Grell with a grin. He was enamored by the way William took charge and led him around the room. However, he was beginning to not believe his own words. This man did seem boring, but something about him fascinated Grell.

There was something almost ethereal and feral about that grin, and William felt dangerously attracted to it. His cold heart thudded in his chest and his palms were sweaty. This pretentious, self absorbed, deluded- things William perceived about him in this small amount of time - individual...yes. Perhaps that was it. His individuality. His gall to prance about this social event in a garish red dress the was barely passable in modest society with its low shoulders and neckline. And yet, redeemed to suit this creature. It contrasted nicely with his bright green eyes, and despite his better judgement, something was stirring within him.

"So," said Grell, attempting to make conversation, "what boring things do you do when you're not being a stick in the mud at parties?"

William frowned. "As in work, or hobbies?"

"Both," answered Grell.

"I help my father run the properties most of the time. As for 'hobbies'. When I'm not working, I tend to my pigeons," he answered honestly, expecting laughter and mockery from his dancing partner. He got neither. Instead, he received a rather stunned look as Grell was reminded of his dreams. "What? Does it shock you that this boring man takes interest in a boring animal?"

"No, no, not at all. Though, yes, it is an odd animal to love, but we all have our own oddities, do we not?"

"I suppose."

Grell's heart was fluttering in his chest. Was this love? Grell asked himself. Could this really be the prince of his dreams?

"You spoke of manners and courtesies," said William, "and yet you have not introduced yourself."

Grell opened his mouth to answer when he heard the clock chime. "Goodness! Is that the time?!" he exclaimed. "I, um...I have to go," he stammered, not wanting to leave. "Appointment at the hair dresser's," he lied, picking up his skirts and fleeing. He stumbled, losing a shoe in the process. Some of the other guests laughed. Extremely embarrassed, Grell picked himself back up and ran from the party, leaving the shoe behind. He felt William's cool stare on his retreating form as he fled. Quick as he could, Grell hopped into his curry bun carriage, snatching the reins up and not bothering to wonder where the fairy had gone. He gave the reigns a snap and tore off down the road to home.

William picked up the forgotten shoe and held it, contemplating his future life choices. The dutiful guest he was, remained at the party until he could fashionably leave without offending anyone. Then he called for the family carriage he had arrived in, mother insisted, and journeyed home, cradling the red shoe in his lap.

As the horse pulled the carriage down the street, the spell began to wear off. His beautiful dress turned back to rags, his hair shortened, and the carriage began shrinking down and turning back into a curry bun. The carriage lurched and shook, tossing Grell from it as the wheels disappeared and the seat became too small for his bottom. Grell was tossed into the horseman. The young man had changed back into a human by the time Grell recovered, untangled himself from him an picked himself up from the ground. He took off towards home, leaving a very confused young man and his now flattened fedora wondering what had happened,

It wasn't until he was home, leaning against the inside of the door and reflecting on the events of the evening that Grell noticed he was still wearing one of the glass slippers. He slipped it from his foot and cherished it in his hands. "I shall always remember this night, my dearest Prince William," he smiled.

Grell woke the next morning giddier than he had felt in a long time as he thought of his darling William. "I bet he's a demon in the sheets," he mused, smiling at the ceiling. "Mrs. William T. Spears. I like the sound of that." Feeling as if he were in a cloud, Grell got up from his bed, having actually slept in it for the first time in years, and pulled the glass slipper from its hiding place. He admired it for a moment before stashing it away again amongst the stuff and going about his chores.

William sat in the aviary, holding the twin to the one hidden in Margaret Chilson's attic. "I don't understand it, Rosalind," he spoke softly to the pigeon pecking at something on the bench beside him. "This feeling. It's irrational. Honestly, we don't even know one another. I can't have these serious feelings for this person."

"Something vexes thee, my son?" his mother's quiet voice fell on his ears as she entered the aviary. "You've been brooding, more than usual," she added, "ever since that party at the Barnaby's." She made to sit down beside him, causing Rosalind to flutter off the bench as William rose and stood until she was seated.

"You and father are always so cold with one another.Apart from not wanting to disgrace our families with a divorce, I've sometimes wondered...but it's not my place or business."

"I suppose we love each other in our own ways. Our marriage was born more of a business arrangement than any such notions of 'love', but we certainly do not 'hate' one another. Emotions would only complicate matters, so it's best not to think about such things.Why? Do you think you've fallen in love with someone? Someone from the party?"

"I'm not sure. It's almost certainly ill advised in regards to 'business'."

"I am sure you will do the sensible thing," she said, patting his hand. "You always do. Beides, doubtless it's anything more than a passing fancy." Se rose from the bench. "Heavens! She has a large foot," his mother exclaimed, seeing the shoe. "Do at least return it to her. It's the polite thing to do."

"Yes," replied William, not knowing what else to say.

Grell hummed and sighed blissfully every time he thought of William, which was constantly. He didn't care about Aunt Margaret's suspicious glances. In the days following the party, Aunt Margaret's circle of friends was all abuzz as they gossiped about the mysterious guest that had crashed the party. "He's absolutely lovesick," one woman said over tea, speaking about William.

"He was at my house yesterday. He says he merely wants to return the shoe," input another.

"Well he won't find that slag in this house!" declared Aunt Margaret.

"They say he's visiting every house of each of the guests regardless.Just to be thorough."

"Here! His dashing prince was coming here! Grell's cheeks turned a red as he squealed and twirled about with the broom he had been using to sweep the floor with. His twirl turned into a dance as he hummed a tune that was played at the party. "Mrs. William T. Spears," he giggled to himself. He never got tired of calling himself that and here he was dancing around the hall like a fool. He should be getting ready! Grell stopped dancing, briefly assessed his current state before going up to his room. Aunt Margaret stepped out in the hall, glowering at his retreating form. She bid her ladies 'good day', seeing them out the door before following her nephew. She stopped at his door where she produced a key from her pocket and locked it. Hearing the snick of the lock, Grell went to it and tried to open it, He pounded at it and shouted for her to let him out, to no avail.

A grey thoroughbred, strong and tall arrived at the Chilson house and William T. Spears dismounted, irritated and ready to be done with his search. Politeness be damned at this point, not bothering to attempt a polite smile. If the crimson crossdresser cared at all for the shoe, he would have contacted him somehow and not force William to go door to door like some salesman and interview all of the people, who more often than not attempted to claim the shoe as theirs or their daughter's.

Mrs. Chilson, if he remembered correctly from their one sided conversation, only had one son and he looked nothing at all like the troublesome redhead. However, he wasn't going to leave any stone unturned and he certainly did not want a reprimand from his mother in failing his duty to return something so simple as a shoe. For all he knew, the redhead was a cousin or something. Putting on his best 'down to business' face, William knocked on the door. "Why, Mr. Spears!" exclaimed Mrs. Chilson in surprise when she opened the door. It sounded half put on to William. He adjusted his glasses and crossed the threshold with a curt 'thank you'.He declined her invite for tea as he followed her to the solar. He'd had had more than enough tea these past few days. Besides, he preferred coffee and he'd rather keep this visit as short as possible.

Recalling her comments of indignation about the redhead, he highly doubted the two were acquainted. Nevertheless, "No, thank you," he said as she once again tried to offer him refreshments " I don't intend to take up much of your time. I'm making inquiries regarding a guest who was in attendance at the party with the Barnaby household. Any information you may have on their whereabouts and how I may get in touch with them will be appreciated."

"Oh? Who may that be?" asked the lady of the house.

"The redhead," answered William dully, not fooled. "As you no doubt have heard by now." As well as tea, William had had his fair share of people pretending not to know the business he was about. Next, Mrs. Chilson would no doubt 'casually' inquire as to if he intended to marry the mysterious 'woman' when he found her.

"Oh, oh, oh...oh, yes," she smiled, still maintaining her farce. "I do believe I heard mention of it, I recall now. I regret to inform you, I know practically nothing about her. I do believe I heard from someone, I am afraid I cannot recall whom precisely, that she was from out of town. No one seems to know who invited her, A party crasher, I say, who was lucky she wasn't tossed out on her ear. Honestly. I still can't over that dress!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Chilson," William interrupted, holding up his hand.

Enraged, Grell beat at the door one more time, growling in anger, :Damn you! Fairy godmother, where are you?!" he shouted. "I need your help. You pixilated pixie!"

There was a puff of pink smoke and the fairy appeared. His silver hair was tucked under a shower cap and naked apart from the fluffy pink towel wrapped around his waist. "I do have a life, you know," he said crankily.

"Stop grousing and help me get out of this room," barked Grell. "They've locked me in here and my dear William could arrive at any moment to sweep me off my feet!"

"I'm the fairy of prime laughter, dearie. Opening locked doors isn't my mission. It's prime laughter I want!"

"Why can't it be love?" Grell asked.

The fairy's face went grave for a moment as he muttered, "Love is bloody."

"Well if you won't break me out of here, give me something to unlock it with! Or smash it with!" Grell said desperately.

"Oh, very well," huffed the fairy, giving his scythe a twirl. A red chainsaw appeared. Grell hefted it into the air, starting it up. With a delightful cackle, he bore the blade into the door. Taking the red shoe from its hiding place, he began his descent down the stairs to give Aunt Margaret a piece of his mind. On his way, he ran into Cyril, who had come to investigate the noise.

"Mother! He's escaped!" Cyril squealed as Grell bore down on him, holding the chainsaw high in the air.

"Out of my way, pork chop!" Grell ordered. Cyril quietly moved aside, mouth agape. Grell flew past him and down to the first floor. William was just entering the hall with Aunt Margaret and Grell stopped short, his mouth the one now agape. "Will!" he exclaimed, his anger towards his aunt forgotten in the moment. "Oh, darling, I knew you'd come for me!"

"Jack!" said Aunt Margaret in a scolding tone.

Grell looked furious at her. "My name is Grell, you old hag! Grell Sutcliff!"

"Grell Sutcliff," William addressed him in a cold tone, giving Grell tingles. "I merely came to return your shoe."

"How noble," Grell cooed. William adjusted his glasses, looking coldly upon the redhead.

"That's enough out of you," said Margaret. "You forget who you are. Do you have any idea who this is?! Of course you don't. You're just my brother's bastard. Return to your room at once!" she demanded.

Grell ignored her tirade, smiling at William as he raised one foot for William to put the shoe on it just as in the fairy tales. "What are you doing?" William asked. "Just take your shoe so I can be on my way," he said, holding the glass slipper out to the redhead.

"No!" screeched Grell's aunt. "I forbid it!" She snatched the shoe from William's hand and smashed it on the floor.

Grell's eyes lit up with rage. "Heartless bitch! I'll teach you to interfere with my happily ever after!" He roared the chainsaw back to life and was about to cut her to ribbons when William's icy tone stopped him.

"Sutcliff."

"What?" he answered hotly before turning to look at the stern face of his intended.

"That's enough!" commanded William, adjusting his glasses once again, taken aback by the other's audacity and wherewithal to commit murder.

"But she-" started Grell.

"I said, that's enough," he repeated in a firmer tone.

Impulsive and overemotional, insane perhaps, and yet the red head's fury quelled with just a glance from William, which he strangely found thrilling and intriguing. He cleared his throat at the pout Grell as he lowered the chainsaw. Mrs. Chilson was white as a sheet and cowering against the wall in fear. Grell looked down at the shattered remains of the slipper on the floor.

"What the hell am I going to do with one shoe?!" he griped, holding up the remaining shoe in question.

"Will you forget the shoe?" asked William in a now irritated tone. "They're not practical anyway."

"It's not about practicality, darling. It's about image and presentation!" Grell replied with a flourish. "It's a symbol of our love which I hoped to pass on to our children someday."

"Children?" echoed William with a perplexed look. Grell carefully stepped over the glass. William reached out a hand to help him, which Grell took with a, "Thank you, darling."

"A girl can dream," said Grell.

"And you honestly expect this dream to come true?"

"You did," Grell replied with a bright smile. "So, why not?" Grell held up the shoe once more.

"Honestly," William sighed. Gripping Grell's hand more firmly, they left the house together.

"Your hair looks terrible. What did you do to it?" asked William as he helped Grell mount his horse. "I trust you know how to ride."

"Never in my life. And my hair wasn't my choice, darling, but don't worry, I'll fix it." Grell squealed in delight as he wrapped his arms around William's waist.

"Honestly," William groaned, an action repeated at their wedding, when upon the parishoner's bidding, Grell bestowed upon him a kiss more suited for a private setting rather than their current formal setting.

The parents of William T. Spears thought the whole affair not very sensible indeed and balked when William insisted Rosalind the pigeon be the ring bearer. That was one of his stipulations in agreeing to marry the redhead. Grell had insisted William owed it to him after the way they debauched each other in the Spears's country cottage. Once Mr. and Mrs. Spears learned of Grell's parentage, and a deep discussion with Mr. Barnaby concerning his legitimacy, they held their peace. Barnaby insisted the whole affair had been Orthodox. It was simply the girl's family the Sutcliff family objected to and refused to acknowledge, forcing Byron Sutcliff to get an annulment. To Grell's surprise and delight, Mr. Barnaby managed to wrangle his father's assets away from Aunt Margaret, giving him quite an income of his own.

Grell, who as promised, had been growing his hair out, wore a grin to William's frown as he took him by the hand and led him back up the aisle. Rosalind took up perch on William's shoulder, not willing to be left behind.

Outside the chapel, Rosalind fluttered off to peck at the birdseed that rained down on them. William noticed a scowling Margaret Chilson and her son standing apart from the crowd. "Why the devil are they here," Grell hissed in his ear. "I'd like to hack off her-"

"Just ignore them and please, no violence. If they cause any problems, I'll have them removed," answered William. However, Margaret Chilson did not afford them that comfort as she approached them while William replied to Grell.

"A moment, Sir William," she addressed him as she stopped in front of them.

"Fuck off, you heartless bitch! You're not invited!" Grell seethed.

"Language!" William chastised Grell, shoving him behind him. Aunt Margaret frowned sourly at Grell. Grell stuck his tongue out at her in response. "I'll handle this," he said to Grell and then to Mrs. Chilson, "A moment only."

"I merely wanted to apologize for my actions upon our last meeting. I wasn't myself-" She paused when Grell interrupted with a "Hah!", but soon continued. "I sincerely pray I haven't given you an ill impression of me or if I have, what I may do to remedy that."

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Mother, make it stop!" shouted Cyril, who had wandered off and must have done something to anger Rosalind as she was flapping about his head and pecking at him.

"My baby boy!" exclaimed Margaret in horror, rushing over to him. Grell busted out laughing. William scowled at his bride, not seeing the humor in the situation. He dragged Grell over to their awaiting carriage and pushed him in then called Rosalind off the two idiots. As the pulled away, Grell threw the bouquet, beaning Margaret in the head.

"Polish that, you old cow!" he shouted and cackled before sitting back in the seat beside his husband.

"Was that really necessary?" asked William.

"No, but I enjoyed it," Grell grinned. He snuggled closer to his husband as they rode off to begin their happily ever after.


End file.
